Something Different

by bunniesslaughtered

There are some things we, as fans, have agreed upon. Washington has nightmares. Sigma is evil. It wasn't Maine's fault. What if we were wrong? A series of short one-shots, all under 600 words, exploring a world where our general conceptions are not necessarily correct. I'll try to post at least one or two a week.

1. Chapter 1

Agent Washington didn't have nightmares.

That didn't necessarily mean he slept well. He tossed and turned, jolting awake at any sound slightly out of the ordinary, reminded himself that he was in an unfamiliar base so of course there would be unusual sounds, almost drifted into sleep, and repeated the process once more.

Sometimes he stared at the ceiling and sorted memories. Reaffirmed which ones were his, and which were Epsilon's.

Tried to forget.

It never worked.

But he rarely had nightmares. He dreamed, certainly, but his dreams were strange and muddled and never made the slightest bit of sense when he inevitably woke with a start because Caboose dropped something or Donut squealed or Sarge got a hold of a weaponized vehicle. And his annoyance at their behavior was quickly drowned by his fear of something happening to them, by the knowledge that he was not all-powerful and couldn't always protect them, that he would never forgive himself if they were attacked and he couldn't save them because he was fucking asleep.

So he would barge into Tucker's room, express his horror at his teammate's choice in sleep attire (or lack thereof), and force them to run drills. Because he had to sleep sometime, and what if he couldn't protect them? They had to be able to protect themselves. He had to make sure they were strong.

Sleep. Sleep itself was his nightmare. The knowledge that he was completely vulnerable, that his team was vulnerable. No matter how much he craved the warm embrace of blankets, the brief respite from his constant worry, the dreams that were simply dreams, he couldn't give in. He learned what he needed to function, and allowed himself little more. It was a luxury he could not afford.

Until, one day, as he lay sprawled on his back in the grass, vision spinning and his entire being screaming for him to slip into unconsciousness, and he finally obeyed. Only after coughing out one more insult to his enemy, of course.

His team – what remained of them – was safe. Freckles had seen to that.

So he slept. Slept with the knowledge that he had saved half his team. Only half.

And for the first time in years, he had a nightmare.